


Erasure

by Anonymous



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Anger, Anxiety, Depression, Diary/Journal, Gen, Heavy Angst, Minor Violence, Overdosing, POV First Person, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28083996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: After Yeosang tries to kill himself for the fourth time and gets hospitalized for the tenth, he finally decides to use the complimentary composition notebook that the hospital gives him.With a two and a half inch-long pencil with no eraser, he writes down what happens within bleak hospital walls, surrounded by people who know what it's like be betrayed by the very brain that keeps them alive.And despite the many times he's been shut away, one thing remains the same: he's safe from the outside world, but not from himself.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17
Collections: Anonymous





	1. i'm back, sort of

**Author's Note:**

> Hello.
> 
> I want to start off by saying that this fic is extremely self-indulgent. I guess you could call it a diary of my own. There are a lot of things I feel and a lot of things I don't say, and I'm saying them here.
> 
> That being said, please heed the tags. There is a lot of heavy stuff in this fic, and some things are described in more depth than others. No matter the case, if you are triggered or made uncomfortable by ANY of the tags, I suggest you don't read this fic. Every chapter, or entry, will probably contain references to every tag listed. So please, heed the warnings. Tags WILL BE ADDED WITH EACH CHAPTER AND MAY CHANGE. This fic is an ongoing glimpse into my head. Things change. New things come up. And they will be dumped here.
> 
> I'm posting this fic anonymously for a reason. Please do not try to figure out who I am. But if you're reading this, and if you make it to the end, and if you find yourself in the same world as mine, please know that you really aren't alone. Really.

**April 6, 4:56 PM**

My name is Yeosang. I can’t tell you my last name because of confidentiality reasons—that’s hospital rules for you. But I’m here because I tried to kill myself again. I thought that maybe I’d keep a journal. I’ve tried in the past, but writing about such a mundane time gets quite boring, and there isn’t much to report sometimes. The people here are miserable. Shit doesn’t get exciting unless somebody explodes. Which happens, yeah, but not all the time.

I got here at approximately 4 PM. Last night, around midnight, I took a bunch of my antidepressants and tried to go to sleep. Like, the permanent sleep. But I guess I didn’t take enough, and I woke up and the room was spinning and tilting and churning like a boat in the middle of the ruthless ocean and… yeah. I stumbled out of bed and wobbled around, knocking into shit, apparently screaming. Can’t really remember, but somebody must have heard me and called for help.

It was the first time I tried overdosing. Prior to that, I tried hanging. Twice. And then cutting. But those three times were all duds, because I was a fucking coward who couldn’t go through with the plan. I thought I would get close with the cutting. I cut so deep, over and over, deeper than I’d ever gone. I thought I’d struck an important vein or artery because the cut all of a sudden started pouring blood, which had never happened before. But then the flow slowed down and I realized I would live. It was the first cut I’d ever had to get stapled.

The hanging was difficult, especially because I didn’t have the proper resources. I used a belt, because I didn’t want to go out and buy a rope lest somebody look at me and question my motive. And I tied the belt to its tightest loop, stuck the buckle at the top of the doorframe, closed the door, and put my head through the loop. I tried to let myself just hang there, lift my feet off the ground for a few seconds. That shit fucking _hurt._

I realized that I couldn’t just lower myself down like that. People properly _jump_ to hang themselves. It breaks their fucking necks. That’s what I need. That’s something that’ll kill me probably faster than trying to dangle from a doorway. I need a place where my feet can’t touch the ground. But that’s for when I get out of here.

I hope the nurses don’t find this journal.

But anyway, I got here at approximately 4 pm. I was wheeled in on a stretcher, and I kept telling everybody that I can’t fucking walk because the drugs are still in my system. As soon as I try to stand, I fall over. It’s fucking nuts. They look at me like I’m lying, which I’m fucking not, I _can’t fucking walk when there are still drugs in my system._ So, I’m in a wheelchair. Gotta admit, it’s kinda fun.

This is my first time in this particular hospital. It’s a lot smaller than the ones I’ve been to before. I mean, it’s still pretty sizable for a unit that holds eight fucking people. Seriously, eight? Why this much space for eight people? Apparently the other hospitals were all full, and this one just so happened to open up the night before I tried to kill myself. So I’m here.

When I got here, everyone else was in rec. I caught a glimpse of them when I was being shown around. I don’t think they noticed me, but that’s fine. I’m going to dinner, and I’ll probably meet them all there. I’ve been to hospitals before, and I know that hospital food is fucking nasty, but I’m not that picky, if I’m being honest. Food is food, even if it tastes like cardboard.

Here’s what I know about this place: it’s one of several units in a bigger hospital, and this particular unit is catered to male young adults aged 18-22. Which, obviously, is a category I fall under. But I’ve never been to such a… specific place. Before, it was basically a hot pot of people. On the adolescent units, there were people 13-17, mixed genders. On the adult units, you had people 18 and over, also mixed genders. Here, it’s guys who are 18-22. Weird.

But what’s the same about here and the other places: it’s the same protocol. You come in, you get your vitals taken, you’re asked what brought you here. You get whatever belongings you had when you were admitted to the emergency room before coming here, and if you weren’t in the emergency room before being admitted, then you just have whatever shit you came with. They take out all the strings: shoelaces, hoodie and/or sweatpants strings, anything like that. If you have piercings, you gotta turn those in too. They pat you down, make sure you’re not hiding anything sharp in your socks. And then you’re ready to roll. And, if you’re like me, you get a new set of wheels.

Because I knew exactly what to expect, I was left alone pretty quickly. In my room, which I am apparently sharing with someone named Hongjoong, was a mattress placed on top of a large purple brick of plastic draped in thin white sheets and a pillow so flat it might as well be part of the mattress. There’s a hefty desk and a really heavy plastic chair and a matching purple plastic wardrobe. The reason why everything is so heavy is because they don’t want you throwing shit at people. I actually only learned that at my last hospital visit.

On my desk was a black and white composition notebook. I had to ask for a pencil, which is approximately 2½ inches long and it has no eraser. Because you can give yourself eraser burns or cut yourself with the metal, and that’s a big no no in a place like this. So, if I fuck up, I just have to scribble shit out.

Dinner is at 5:30. I think I’ll take a nap.

**April 6, 6:32 PM**

I’m sitting in the lounge. There’s the rec room, where there’s arts and crafts and shit, the lounge, where there’s a really small flatscreen mounted on the wall that plays dramas all day, the dining room, where I just came from, and some miscellaneous rooms that are probably used for seclusion. The lounge is really fucking bright. Or maybe my eyes are still being fucked by the drugs.

I got to meet my roommate, Hongjoong. He’s just a year older than me, 21. I don’t know what he’s in for, but he’s a nice guy. I wheeled into the dining room, where the seven other guys were all in line for their food, and they all stared at me. I stared back. I’ve been through this shit before. And sure enough, they looked away.

I sat alone, but as soon as I sat down, Hongjoong moved to sit with me. The guy he was sitting with before, San, looked pretty sad when he did that.

He’s pretty blunt. He asked me, “Hey, why’re you in a wheelchair? You got something wrong with your legs?” So I told him straight up that I overdosed and couldn’t walk because of it. He nodded and said, “Ah. Gotcha. That’s pretty rad.” I don’t know how a suicide attempt is “rad,” but I cracked a smile, honestly.

The food isn’t actually terrible. It’s like, actual food. And I guess I didn’t realize how hungry I was. They gave me some crackers back at the emergency room because my stomach felt queasy from the drugs. Now that I have actual food in my stomach, I feel a bit better.

I wonder if the others heard me when I told Hongjoong why I was here. If they did, whatever—we’re all here because we’re fucked up in some way. At least one of them has tried to kill themselves before, I’m sure of it.

Actually, at one point Hongjoong leaned in and told me that one of the other guys, Seonghwa, jumped from the second floor of his house and that’s how he got here. He used to be in a wheelchair like me, but he’s been here so long that he no longer needs one and just walks around with a limp and a bright green cast. Whether it was because he was trying to kill himself, nobody knows, apparently.

So, here are the names that I know:

Hongjoong, my roommate. He has red hair but it looks more orange because it’s fading. I can’t really get a read on him. San, the guy that Hongjoong was sitting with back in the dining room. He’s very fidgety. There’s Seonghwa, who looks _really_ intense. Like, I’m almost scared of him. Not because I think he’s angry, but because I think he thinks a lot and he seems very lost in his head. He just… stares. He’s focused on the TV for now, but if he looks at me, I might as well turn to stone.

I haven’t learned the other guys’ names, but there’s group therapy at 7, so I guess I’ll learn their names then. This is the fun part: learning everybody’s names. You might not learn their stories, but at least you learn their names. And you sort of get to know them, if they decide to talk.

I don’t like to talk about my emotions, but I’ll talk about the shit I’ve been through. That’s the stuff that happens on the surface, the very tip of the iceberg: I cut myself, I think about dying, and I’ve tried to kill myself four times. But the stuff below that? That’s the stuff I don’t want to show the world because then it’s out there, and I have to face it, and I’d rather sit alone, a ticking time bomb, waiting and wanting to explode.

**April 6, 10:57 PM**

I learned that one of the patients is actually getting discharged tomorrow. That was the first thing the therapist, Minsu, announced, and she made us all clap for the guy. His name is Yeonjun. Guess I’m happy for him.

Then she announced that I was new, which should be fucking illegal, but whatever. Of course I’m new and they know that. She had us do an introduction circle, where we stated our names and ages.

So here’s an updated list:

Hongjoong, 21. Seonghwa, 22. Yunho, 20. San, 20. Mingi, 20. Jongho, 19. Yeonjun, 19.

I watched them. Hongjoong was the most talkative. Seonghwa was even more intense in such an intimate setting. Yunho seemed a little on edge. San kept his head down and bit his nails. Mingi looked everywhere but us. Jongho was attentive. And Yeonjun was just ecstatic about getting the fuck out of here.

It was less of group therapy and more of Yeonjun talking about his goals for when he gets out of here, how much progress he made, etc. And I don’t know how much of what he said was the truth, because that’s what you’re supposed to do to get out of here: lie. You have to lie through every bone in your body, not just your teeth. Say that you’re doing okay. Smile through the pain. Take your meds, be a good boy, don’t act out. Don’t hurt yourself. Go to group, go to dinner, participate. And maybe, you’ll get out sooner than later.

So Yeonjun went on about how he’s come so far, but I wonder what’ll happen that reels that line back to its rod.

Hongjoong was happy for him, but it was a fake happiness. Hongjoong just seems… fake. I don’t know how else to describe it. He seems too happy to be in a place like this, but I know how that goes. Tomorrow, he’ll be incredibly depressed. Or angry. Basically, he’ll be the complete opposite of what he is today. Mood fluctuates really easily here.

He’s talking to one of the staff members right now. I think they’re discussing their favorite bands. He really does seem like a nice person, and honestly, that’s how most people are in here. I don’t think anybody admitted to a hospital is a shitty person. They just have storms in their brains that won’t part. And lightning strikes. And there’s an explosion. And then you’re stuck.

What I like about this place is there’s no bedtime. I’m sitting in the lounge right now. It seems as if most people have gone to bed. Hongjoong is out in the hall talking to staff at the front desk. They’re laughing. I’m in here, and across from me is Yunho. The TV gets turned off once the majority of people go to bed. He’s shuffling a deck of cards. And that’s another thing people do in here: play cards. Because there’s nothing else to do.

Yunho has a really friendly face. I think if I talk to him, he’ll talk to me too. But I know that there’s more troubling him. When I look up, I catch him staring at my arms. And he doesn’t look away. So I ignore it. I wonder if he ignores the fact that I ignore it.

It makes me think we have something in common.


	2. booty juice

**April 7, 9:23 AM**

I slept really well last night. Probably as a result of the drugs. I got up and slid into my wheelchair, and the nurses kept looking at me when I rolled out into the hall. They asked if I could walk, and I didn’t know if I could, but I tried. And what do you know, I actually could! I stood up and didn’t fall over! I have regained my ability to walk, but not the ability to regulate my emotions. Eh, guess I’d rather choose the former anyway.

The only people who went to breakfast were me, Yunho, San, and Jongho. The rest were still asleep, I guess. Hongjoong definitely was. I sat alone, while the other three sat with each other. I didn’t ask to join them, and they didn’t ask me to sit with them either. Which is fine, I’m not here to make friends after all. They didn’t even talk to each other.

I honestly don’t know _what_ I’m here for. To get better? I guess? That’s always the goal. But look, this is the tenth time I’ve been hospitalized. I wouldn’t say shit is “getting better.” I guess “getting stable” is a more appropriate term.

That’s what we’re here for. Something happened and we couldn’t take life outside these walls. And now we’re here because out there, we weren’t okay. Hell, we’re probably still not okay in here, but at least we don’t have the resources to hurt ourselves, for the most part. And there are people to watch us and make sure that we don’t try to hurt ourselves or others. So no, we’re not okay, but we’re better than we are when we’re out there.

They want to make sure that we get our heads screwed back on and that we can handle life outside of here, no matter how temporary. But here’s the thing: I don’t think any of us will be able to, because that’s how the cycle goes: we act out, we get sent here, we lie, we go back out into the world, shit gets bad, and everything repeats. It makes me wonder how many people have come and gone and actually succeeded in life, or at least managed to dig themselves out of the holes they were thrown into. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever be one of those people.

I don’t really care, if I’m being honest. At least, not now. Because I think deep down, I am set on dying. I am set on dying because the world is not meant for me, and I am not meant for the world. What stopped me was the pain, the sheer amount of pain and fear I was in when I felt the world fading around me. I need to get rid of that fear. I need to be able to accept the pain, because without the pain, there will be no release. I need to let the world fade. I need to let the blood and air escape from me.

But those are thoughts for the outside. Because I can’t cut or hang myself in here.

There is group therapy at 10. I’m back in my room, and Hongjoong hasn’t woken up yet. Yeonjun left before I woke up, I guess. So now, that leaves 7 of us. I wonder when the next person will come.

Another thing about these places: beds fill up fast. There are a lot of sad and angry people out there who need to be watched or else they’re gonna end up hurting somebody. I bet there’s gonna be another person wheeled in here today.

I think about that fact a lot. That there are so many people like that out there. Too many people who are suffering within their own bodies, their own minds. Some people can’t afford to be in here. Some people have no idea that they _should_ be in here. It’s crazy to me.

When I’m within my own mind, I am the only person who exists. I am alone with all of my pain. There is nobody else there, nobody else is suffering but me. But that’s not what it’s like at all, outside of me. There are so many people out there, suffering, starving, cutting, burning, kicking, screaming. They’re all trying to live despite everything bad about themselves and the world they’re growing up in. And there will always be the people who tell them, “There are people who have it worse.” Sure, some people have it worse. I think about that a lot too. I’m not starving, I have parents who are alive, I’m not being beaten up. There are people who are going through that when I’m not.

So do people have it worse than me? Absolutely.

Then _why the FUCK am I here?_

If my pain is lesser than other people, I shouldn’t be here. Those people should. I should be living and being happy, because my pain is a paper cut in comparison to another’s third degree burn. I can slap a bandaid over my pain; they need an entire skin graft.

I can’t deny the fact that I’m not happy. _I’m not._ I’m fucking depressed, and I want to die. One less person in the world won’t make much of a difference. There, that’s my logic. In the grand scheme of things, whenever death catches up to me, it won’t matter, because the world will keep going without me. Those who know or knew me will go on to die too. Everyone dies. And then more people are born. And those people die too. Another cycle.

So, the fact that people have it worse than me does not make me or anybody feel better. Because we’re still slaves to our own minds. We’re still trapped. We can’t be cured by the fact that others are hurting too. That shit doesn’t fucking help.

My dad said it all the time. He would always tell me that he went through a tough time when he was younger and that he didn’t need medication. I learned to stop listening to him. He doesn’t help.

Nothing really does.

**April 7, 1:56 PM**

Group therapy is always awkward. The therapist started off with, “How is everybody doing?” and nobody answered because the answer is always going to be some variation of “not so great.” The therapist has to be smart enough to know that. So instead of sitting in silence, she asked what positive things we think about when things get bad.

And Hongjoong answered with, “We don’t think positive things when things get bad because things are bad. How the fuck can we think positive things?”

We all looked at each other in a silent agreement with that answer. So the therapist changed her question again. She asked what positive things we think when things are _okay._

Hongjoong seemed a little more satisfied with that question and he said, “I think about the fact I can have a cigarette when I get home from work. Not that I can have any in this fucking place.” Then the therapist asked if he needed a nicotine patch. He said yes, got up and left, and didn’t come back.

The therapist was floundering at this point. I think she might be new, she’s pretty young and seemed a little nervous being surrounded by all of us. But none of us looked at her; I was paying attention. Seonghwa was staring off into space again, San stared at the floor in front of him. Jongho was dozing off, Mingi was looking out the window, and Yunho…

Yunho was looking at my arms again.

I don’t make much of an effort to hide my scars. They’re there. He surely knows that. But today, I was wearing the complimentary hospital robe I got when I was first admitted, and my scars weren’t really out in the open. Yunho probably saw them yesterday, and yet, he wouldn’t stop staring.

I’ve pretty much solidified the assumption in my head. He has his black hoodie on again today.

So then, the therapist asked us about our coping skills, the negative and the positive.

“I cut myself,” I said bluntly. “Which is pretty negative.”

Everyone looked at me, probably not expecting the new guy to speak so openly so soon. But what do I have to hide besides the rest of the iceberg? My scars are on the surface. I can talk about the surface.

“Yes, self-harm is a negative coping mechanism.”

“See, you called it a mechanism. Not a skill. But I’d argue that cutting _can_ be a skill, because you need good blades to make better cuts,” was my response.

Cutting with scissors is almost useless; it’s tough to get a good handle on them. Serrated things hurt like hell and don’t leave clean cuts. The good things are the box cutter blades, pencil sharpener blades, tools specifically made for _slicing._ I quickly added that I knew that there are other methods of self-harm, such as biting, burning, hitting, hair-pulling, etc. But me, I like the blood. I like watching it appear and pool at the surface. When my skin opens and blood follows, it’s like I’m watching a shooting star soar across the sky.

And that pain, that temporary distraction from the _real_ pain you’re feeling inside? Well, that’s what I’m addicted to.

“And what do you feel when you cut?” was the therapist’s question.

“Better,” I answered. And I left it at that.

Surely Yunho could relate. He stopped looking at my arms.

The therapist asked if I had any positive coping skills, making sure to use the word “skills” this time. I told her I read and write and play the piano sometimes, but that I’m not good at it. Yet, she said that they were still really good skills and that when things get bad, I should turn to those instead of cutting myself. Yeah, no fucking shit. She must be _really_ new.

I was the only one who talked during the session. Which, whatever.

I’m back in my room. I don’t know where Hongjoong is. He wasn’t at lunch, and he’s not in here.

I passed by the patient board after lunch and saw there was a new name: Wooyoung.

Admission time: 5 PM.

**April 7, 6:03 PM**

So.

I went to dinner. Hongjoong came back and we sat together. I asked him where he went, and he told me he went to get a nicotine patch and then met with the doctor and his individual therapist. He ate lunch in our room when I was in the lounge. He’s okay, at least, that’s what he told me. I’m pretty sure he left out a few details, but I didn’t press him any further.

They keep the door to the dining room open. I could hear the commotion, the wheels of the stretcher, people talking. Wooyoung had arrived.

I saw him very briefly as he was being wheeled down the hall. He looked inside the dining room, and while I only saw him for a second, he did _not_ look happy, which is obviously understandable.

But holy shit, I didn’t expect him to blow up so soon.

It was fine at first. Hongjoong and I were eating peacefully, making some small talk when all of a sudden I heard Wooyoung’s voice gradually getting louder. Asking things like, “Why the fuck am I even here?” and “Where the fuck is my phone?” It makes me think he’s never been to a place like this. You’re not allowed to have phones.

And then he started yelling. A lot of swearing. And then the staff in the dining room closed the door and we all looked at each other. We could still hear Wooyoung’s voice, just muffled this time.

“Jesus,” Hongjoong muttered. “He’s gonna be another Sungjin.”

Jongho laughed. “Oh god, don’t bring him up again.”

“Who’s worse, I wonder?” Hongjoong thought aloud.

“Who’s Sungjin?” I asked.

“He was a hot fucking mess,” Hongjoong said. “Had an outburst at _least_ once a day. He was discharged two weeks ago.”

I asked how long he’s been here. And he said, “Long enough.”

Then, Wooyoung’s frame appeared in the tiny window of the door. He was still yelling, things like, “I don’t need to be here!” “Fuck all of you!” “Let go of me!” “You fucking assholes, I’ll fucking kill you!” And then he disappeared further down the hall.

Hongjoong and Jongho laughed. And Hongjoong announced to the group, “He’s so getting the booty juice!”

And it was my turn to laugh. “Booty juice” is the shit they inject into your ass cheek to calm you down. Knocks you out. And you wake up high as a kite. At least, that’s what I’ve seen. I’ve never received the booty juice because I don’t have outbursts.

But apparently Yunho didn’t know what it was, so Hongjoong explained it to him. And then he laughed.

Soon enough the entire room, minus the staff, was laughing. Even Seonghwa. In another room down the hall, Wooyoung might’ve been getting the booty juice.

“Have you gotten the booty juice before?” I asked Hongjoong.

“No, but Mingi has.”

Mingi frowned. “Hey, come on! That was _one_ time! And I haven’t been juiced since!”

“Still counts,” Hongjoong said, sticking out his tongue.

I know that getting the booty juice isn’t a good thing, but damn, it’s hard not to laugh at it.

**April 7, 10:23 PM**

Group therapy was a little lighter this time, and it was with a different therapist. I think we were all still amused by the whole “booty juice” thing, so we went in with high spirits. The therapist asked what was so funny and Hongjoong straight up told him that it was because Wooyoung was getting the booty juice. The therapist’s name is Jun. He laughed with us and asked us to take it easy on Wooyoung.

“Did he really get the booty juice?” San asked.

“That, I don’t know. But all booty juice talk aside, let’s talk about how our days went.”

“I think the most exciting part of all of our days was the booty juice,” Hongjoong said.

Of course, we had to move on from the booty juice talk. Jun asked what our highlight of the day was besides the booty juice. And it could’ve been something as small as the best food we ate, or the prettiest thing we saw.

“I think when I get my cookies for snack later… that’ll be the highlight of my day,” San said.

“Hear hear!” Hongjoong assented.

“I finished my book of sudoku,” Jongho said. “Onto the next.”

“My parents brought me a puzzle and staff said I could start it in the lounge so you fuckers better not touch it or you’re dead meat,” Mingi said. And then Hongjoong told him to cool it before _he_ got the booty juice, and Mingi just laughed and said he was kidding.

“See?” Jun said. He was laughing too. “It’s the little things.”

Which, yeah, I suppose is true. Cookies are pretty damn good. Finishing a sudoku puzzle, and a whole _book_ of them, is an accomplishment. Puzzles are fun if you have the patience for them. And you can’t have those things when you’re dead.

I _feel_ okay for now, but I am not okay. There’s a difference. But I’ll take this feeling over wanting to die any day.

I haven’t seen Wooyoung since dinner. And I still don’t know if he got the booty juice or not.

**April 8, 12:34 AM**

I can’t sleep. I’m in the lounge again, and Yunho is across from me. It seems he has a hard time sleeping. When that happens, you take melatonin or trazodone. I saw Yunho taking his meds earlier, though I don’t know if one of those were for sleep. Well, he’s awake now. The staff is outside, chatting. I think they know that we’re not going to hurt anybody, so they’re leaving us alone.

We’ve been here for about an hour, just the two of us. Yunho has a coloring book.

And he actually talked to me for a bit. He asked how my day was. I said it was good, that the booty juice incident was funny. He chuckled and agreed. He told me that it was his first time in a place like this and that he didn’t know what to expect. He’s been here for five days. I asked him how he likes it. He said that he doesn’t like it, but it could be worse, because it’s a lot worse at home.

“Yeah,” I told him. “That’s how it is.”

“It’s weird,” he said. “I don’t like it here, but I do. Because here, I’m not alone, you know? I’m not the only one in pain.”

And I understand. I really do.

I didn’t ask him what life was like at home, because I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk about that with me. Or anybody, maybe. So instead I asked what he likes to do. He said he doesn’t actually do anything with art, but he dances and is going to school for it. I told him that he should show us someday, and he smiled and said maybe.

The fact that he smiled when I said that shows that it’s something he’s passionate about, and I’m happy that he’s passionate about something. We could all use some passion in our lives. Maybe that’s a cure. Maybe.


End file.
